


Collections

by donskoi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ableism, Blood, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Drugs, Fluff, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mayhem, Murder, Suicidal Ideation, Swearing, Victim Dehumanization, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6982159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donskoi/pseuds/donskoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of drabbles I posted to tumblr now have a home on AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandonment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short drabble, in which Junkrat deals with another aspect of Borderline Personality Disorder. See tags for warnings.

Roadhog’s never coming back.

Junkrat paces the motel room, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He stares at the carpet, near counting the threads each step takes him past. The carpet is this hideous rose-red colour, patterned with lines and crosses. It matches the rest of the room. Burgundies and beiges.

He stops pacing. Stands still. Shuts his eyes, runs his hands through his hair. Grounds himself.

 _I’m losing me fuckin’ mind,_ Junkrat thinks.

Not that it wasn’t lost a long time ago. It’s just that—Junkrat _hates_ waiting.

It’s been over an hour now since Roadhog went out to “get food”. How fucking long does it take to go out and get food? Not an hour, that’s what.

 _He’s left me,_ Junkrat thinks, and panic immediately rises alongside the taste of bile in his mouth. The thought of being without Roadhog is so inconsistent with everything Junkrat’s ever imagined that the very idea makes him sick. He rushes to the toilet, barely makes it in time.

After he’s done tossing his stomach, he sits on the hard tile floor and leans his head against the toilet seat. His eyes are wide, darting about the room, as if Roadhog is hiding behind the shower curtains. His legs are curled up against his chest. Holding himself together.

“He hasn’t left,” he says aloud. “He’ll be back soon.”

Of course, there isn’t an answer.

“ _Very_ soon,” he amends.

His cheek is cramped against cold porcelain. He doesn’t move even to wipe drool away as it gathers on the corner of his lips. He’s too focused on trying not to feel.

Missing Roadhog is like having ice shoved through his veins. Too much cold in a too hot body. Steam is rising out of his ears, he knows it.

The clock in the other room ticks and ticks. More minutes pass by. He waits, wanting to hear the key in the lock, any second now, any damn fucking shit fucking second now.

“He hasn’t left me,” Junkrat says.

_He’s never coming back._

Junkrat curls up on himself tighter. The panic is freezing his limbs, racing his thoughts alongside his heartbeat. He raises his good hand to his lips and starts gnawing on his polished thumbnail. The black polish that matches Roadhog’s.

What will he do? With Roadhog gone, so is the money. He took the duffle with him. Oh, god, he took the duffle bag with him. He took their fucking bag. He really is gone. He’s fucking _gone_. Probably on the first boat headed back to Australia. He’s abandoned Junkrat on foreign soil far from home and just up and fucking left.

Junkrat hauls himself up and strides to the bed. He picks up one of the pillows (where they’d been making out just hours ago) and slams it into the bed covers. Over and over.

A scream is building in his chest, but if he lets it out he’ll have the cops called on him.

Roadhog’s gone, he’s all alone, and he’s probably going to be arrested.

 _I can’t believe he’s fucking left me_.

He pummels the pillow until it’s lumpy, then he hurls it against the wall as hard as he can. It hits with a satisfying _smack_ and falls to the floor in a pitiful manner. Junkrat, breathing hard now, rages and seethes and burns in that vicious little head of his.

No. He won’t accept this. This can’t be it. It _can’t_ be.

Junkrat grabs his boot and perches on the edge of the bed. He shoves it on, tying up the laces as fast as his jittering fingers can handle.

Roadhog said ‘stay here’, and ‘don’t move’, and ‘I fucking mean it’, but like hell that’s going to stop Junkrat from chasing after him. If he thinks he can end it like this, so suddenly, so out of _nowhere_ , he’s got another thing coming.

Junkrat will find him. And one of two things will happen.

One: he gets on his damn knees. He does anything, says anything, promises anything to make Roadhog come back and stay with him. Forever.

Two: he murders the shit out of that fat bastard.

He hasn’t decided.

Boot laced, he heads for the door. No jacket, no disguise, no weapons, no keys for their room. Doesn’t matter. He flings the door open and the night greets him, crisp and cool.

He knows the way to the harbour. Just have to get there before Roadhog does, if he’s not there already. Have to get there before his boat pulls out, then. He’ll blow up the whole damn bay to stop Roadhog from leaving him. He doesn’t give a single fuck. Anything. He’ll do _anything_.

He runs for the walkway, where the motel opens up to the street. He’s so distracted by his racing thoughts that he doesn’t even notice that the sidewalk is already occupied. Junkrat full on slams into a body much bigger than his, sending him flying back onto the pavement.

“Watch your damn self!” Junkrat hollers, breaking the cricket-filled noises of the night.

“Jamie?”

He looks up, brain stalling mid-sentence. And it’s—it’s—it’s–

“‘Hog,” he breathes.

Roadhog stands above him, duffle bag over his shoulder and a paper bag of Chinese takeout in his hand. He’s not wearing his mask, but the usual hat-and-sunglasses combo that gets them weird looks at night. His mouth is turned down in a grimace.

“What are you doing?” Roadhog asks. He sounds tired.

Junkrat doesn’t have an answer for him. Just questions.

“Where were you?” He half-squeaks. He jumps to his feet in a fluid motion, jabbing Roadhog in the chest with an accusing finger. Louder now: “Where the _fuck_ were you?!”

Roadhog tilts his head, in that way he does when he’s confused. “I had to take a back route,” he says. “Coppers were stopped up a few blocks down. I avoided them.”

Junkrat pulls his hand away from Roadhog’s chest, slowly. Then it really hits him.

“You came back,” he says, sounding dumb even to himself.

Roadhog just looks at him.

Junkrat breaks out laughing. Heavy cackles that wrack his whole body and make him double over. Between barks of laughter he gasps for air and reaches out for support. Roadhog steps closer, sliding his hand under Junkrat’s arm, letting him lean into it.

“Are you alright?” Roadhog asks.

Junkrat surges forward, jump-tackling Roadhog into a hug, still laughing. Roadhog, being the size he is, doesn’t move as Junkrat’s body impacts his. He sighs, patting Junkrat’s back in a comforting manner, too used to Junkrat’s emotional outbursts.

“You came back,” Junkrat says, nothing in his voice except pure joy. Tears leak out between his squeezed-shut eyes, glistening in the light from the streetlamps. Roadhog swipes them away with his thumb. He doesn’t know what all this nonsense is about, but…

“Course I came back.” Roadhog, as best as he can with the duffle and the food, puts his arms around Junkrat’s skinny body and holds him up. “I will always come back for you.”

Junkrat giggles, heart near fit to burst.

That is—

That is exactly what he needed to hear.


	2. Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, stylized look into Roadhog's head and my version of how the duo met. See tags for warnings.

Roadhog doesn’t do the ‘emotion’ thing so well.

Oftentimes, he feels muzzled. Muffled. Muted.

Oftentimes, he feels empty.

His heart stopped beating a long time ago.

He gets tired of people easily. Gets tired of himself.

He gets tired of scavving. Gets tired of fighting. Gets tired of killing.

Gets tired.

Over and over, he makes the dangerous journey across the irradiated desert. Drinks irradiated water, cause that’s all you’ll find. Eats irradiated insects bigger than his head.

Hauls metal carcasses back to Junkertown. So the town can expand. So people can stop fighting and killing each other over shelter. So they can continue to kill each other over water instead.

Junkertown is a dangerous place.

Roadhog is the most dangerous one of all.

He’s lost count of all the lives lost in his hands. Whether he caused their deaths or not.

Friends and foes alike. Indiscriminate.

The final trip. That’s what he promises himself. He’s got enough money saved up to drink himself into a stupor. To guzzle Junkertown moonshine till he dies. No matter how many months it takes.

Till he dies.

Far from the home the Omnics destroyed and then stole. Far from the people that loved him.

The war buried them alongside everything else.

He already lacks a heart. There’s not much else left to poison.  
The simple truth is,

Roadhog wants to die.

…

Then along comes a ‘Rat.

Explosions and colour.

Roadhog just happens to be walking down the exact right street at the exact right time.

Fate?

He doesn’t believe in bullshite.

A blonde brat running towards him. Covers the street in steel traps and litters it with bombs.

Then, around the corner. One of Junkertown’s many street gangs. Firing off scatterguns. Clearly chasing the kid. But they don’t even realize what’s waiting for them.

Roadhog stands back and enjoys the fireworks.

Afterwards, while the sand soaks up the saccharine staining the street, the kid laughs and laughs. He turns to Roadhog and asks, did you fuckin’ see that?!

Roadhog nods. He saw the whole thing.

The kid howls. Like death and destruction is the funniest thing he ever saw.

Then he looks at Roadhog again. Seems to really see him this time.

I know you! The kid exclaims. You’re motherfucking Roadhog!

Roadhog doesn’t reply, but continues on his way down the street.

Wait!

The kid offers to buy him a drink. The kid says he has a deal for him.

Roadhog says he’s sick of deals.

Hear me out!

The kid is persistent. Follows him all the way to the bar.

Roadhog is already planning fifteen different ways of killing him.

Presumptuous brat sits down next to him. Roadhog lets him buy that drink.

And with perfect clarity, down to the tone, the enunciation, the mood of his voice:

“M’names Jamison Fawkes,” he says. “Most people call me Junkrat.”

‘Junkrat’ is surprisingly friendly. Most of Junkertown’s street-brats are near feral. But Junkrat knows basic sentence structure. Which means he was raised proper at some point in his life. Maybe too long ago to remember, but it’s still ingrained.

Roadhog isn’t in the mood for friendly. He’s in the mood to get drunk.

They’re after my treasure, Junkrat says.

What treasure? Roadhog asks, seeing nothing on him but bombs and traps.

Junkrat points to his head.

S’all in here, he says. They’re after me brain.

Piss poor haul, Roadhog says. Can get a nut down the street for a dollar.

Junkrat laughs at that like he’s never heard a joke in his life.

…

A bassline in his chest.

A rhythm in his wrists.

He puts two fingers to his throat and there it is, thudding, thudding, thudding.

Roadhog knows the date. It’s been a year since they met.

Junkrat is too busy being asleep to appreciate how much time has passed. How much distance they’ve crossed. And all of it side-by-side.

But Roadhog knows.

At some point in their adventures together, his heart started to beat again.

He can’t pinpoint the moment. He couldn’t even guess.

So he watches Junkrat sleep.

Roadhog doesn’t do the ‘emotion’ thing so well.

He blanks on empathy and misunderstands compassion. He mistrusts happiness, ignores sadness, and refutes anger. There are no highs, nor are there lows. There is silence.

What the war left behind is a creature of twisted metal and sand-blasted stone.

But now there’s a beating heart behind it all.

 _Alive_.

Junkrat makes him feel alive.

He could love the kid for that, he thinks.

Junkrat snorts in his sleep, rolls over, expression serene.

Roadhog runs his hand through his messy blonde hair.

Junkrat-- Jamie smiles.

And, despite himself, despite everything, Roadhog-- Mako smiles too.

He could love the kid for that.


	3. Hostage/Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of a heist, Junkrat has some deep questions. See tags for warnings.

“Have’ya ever been in _love_?”

The hostage splutters something around their gag.

 Junkrat looks down on them, considering. He speaks quietly; doesn’t wanna be overheard.

“I know it’s a personal question,” he says, crouching down, getting on their level. “You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t want to.”

Junkrat waits patiently for an answer, but the hostage just stares at him. Sweat is beading along their hairline and dripping in streaks down their forehead. _It isn’t that hot,_ Junkrat thinks, comparing the American summer to home.

Maybe it’s the rope? Maybe Roadhog tied them up too tight, poor bugger. They’re forced into a kneeling position, their clean clothes rumpled, their limbs and body bound by harsh, rough, scratchy, cheap rope. But boy, Roadhog sure is an artist with the stuff. Junkrat grins and gets tingles just thinking about it.

“Awright, don’t answer,” He sighs. “It’s just…” he looks around. Roadhog is at the far end of the room, strapping one of the packages to a column.

“I think I am?” Junkrat confesses. “In love, I mean. I’m all backwards about it.” He grabs his bag of goodies and drags it closer. He crouches in front of the hostage again, looks them over. He leans back a bit, measuring them with his eyes. Then he looks at the column they’re next to.

“Six oughta do,” Junkrat murmurs. He leans into his bag and digs through it. He pulls out six bombs, all of them hand-painted with his signature smiley face. He’d painted these up just last night, in preparation for today. He also grabs five long coils of wire.

He sits down, gets comfy all cross-legged. With agile hands he takes one of the bombs and cracks the casing open a little, just enough to slip the end of a wire through and hook it on.

“I could use some parental advice,” he continues, keeping his voice low. “But I don’t got none of those anymore.”

He works deftly, connecting the bombs to one another. This way, when they go off, they’ll go off in a string of beautiful booms.

The hostage isn’t breathing right. They’re staring at his hands, eyes bugging out of their head.

“You’re right, it’s tough,” Junkrat admits. “My main thing is—well, how d’you _know_? How d’you know it’s real? I look at the big lug and I feel all…” He trails off, shaking his head. “But he’s me best mate! I could be getting my feelings in a mixer. I’m not so good at sorting out this stuff out. Hence, I need some advice.”

The hostage whimpers. Junkrat tilts his head.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he says. “You’ve got somethin’ in your mouth.” He cackles at his own joke, pointing at the hostage as he’s mocking them. It subsides eventually, and he gets back to work, back to more serious conversation.

“No, I mean,” he says, resuming work on the bombs. “We’ve bonked a number of times. A fair number of times.” He grins again at the memory of _last time_. “It’s real nice. _Really_ good. Better sex than I’ve ever had, hands fuckin’ down. And I think he feels the same way, cause jeez, is he ever enthusiastic.”

The hostage looks like they’re going to be sick.

Junkrat hesitates. “TMI? Sorry, mate. Sometimes I just prattle on without thinkin’.” He holds up the string of six bombs, testing the connection. They all stay hooked together.

Junkrat glances across the room. Roadhog is at another column, walking around it in circles with more rope coiling out of his hands. The package he’s strapping to it is wiggling in desperation.

“But are we like,” Junkrat says slowly. “ _Boyfriends_? That sounds so weird.” He shakes his head. “I’m too nervous to ask him outright. ‘M scared he’ll say yes. Also scared he’ll say no.” He dangles the bombs up to eye level, glowering at their smiling faces. Then he looks at the hostage again. “D’you know what I mean?”

The hostage splutters again. Drool drips from the gag and Junkrat recoils in disgust.

“Ew,” he says, and tosses a spare rag he’s had in his bag up into the hostage’s face. “Here.” It hits them and flutters to the ground. “Clean yourself up, you’re a mess.” He raises an eyebrow when the hostage doesn’t move. He waits a mo’.

“Oh right,” he says then, a slow, sadistic grin growing across his face. “You’re sorta stuck in place, aren’t you?”

The hostage whimpers. Junkrat thinks they might actually start crying.

Junkrat giggles, and reaches into his bag again. He pulls out a sticky adhesive and starts slathering it on the backs of the bombs.

“How do you _know_ its love?” He asks again. “He’s my favourite person in the whole world. But is that it? Is that enough?” He stands, his work done. He starts draping the string of bombs around the hostage’s body, circling them, sticking the bombs to their fancy outfit. To their torso, mainly. But the bomb on the end of the coil gets stuck to their cheek, and Junkrat pats it there like a loving parent would a child.

“There y’go,” he says. “You’re almost ready, mate.”

The hostage makes one last desperate attempt at communication. They _shout_ something, right in Junkrat’s face. But it gets caught and slathered in the gag, turning the vocals into an indistinguishable mess. Junkrat freezes.

“Love hurts?” He asks, repeating what he just heard. “Is that how you know it’s real?”

Junkrat looks up at Roadhog. He’s hooking the second-last package to the second-last column. The whole banking hall is done up in pretty packages, all trussed up with rope and bombs.

“It hurts when he isn’t around,” Junkrat says slowly.  “Hurts like hell when I think, maybe he don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave me. That _really_ hurts.” He chews on his bottom lip, watching Roadhog, wanting him to catch his gaze. Roadhog does, when he’s finished. Junkrat smiles.

“You’re right,” he tells the hostage, as Roadhog ambles over to them.

“What are you doing?” Roadhog asks when he gets close.

“Just havin’ a friendly conversation,” Junkrat says at his normal volume (so, loudly). “Not about you or nothin’. Don’t be so paranoid.”

Roadhog grunts, and grabs the hostage by the ropes binding their back.

“Cops’ll be charging in here any second,” he says. “Help me get this one up.”

Junkrat does, winding the ropes around the hostage/package and the column supporting the bank’s ceiling while Roadhog holds them up. Soon enough, they’re strung right up, bombs a-tickin’ and ready to blow. Junkrat grabs his universal detonator and carries it snug in his good hand.

“Thanks for the advice,” he tells the package. In response, they really do start crying.

Just like that, the front doors are blasted inwards and open. Roadhog grabs Junkrat’s robotic hand and hauls him towards the back, so quickly that Junkrat barely gets his feet under him. He at least has the presence of mind to snatch up his bag on his arm while they pass it.

“Holler at ‘cha, boys!” Junkrat crows. The cops storming the bank are too busy panicking over the packages spread around the room to start shooting at them. Junkrat flicks his detonator open and hits the button.

There’s a moment of silence. And then the _booms_ start. The packages pop, one by one, all in neat little lines, cracking and crumbling the columns they’re attached to in pieces.

Roadhog hauls him along and they burst out of the back of the bank just as the explosions start to really rock the building. Their bike is waiting in the alley, with all the stolen money sitting neat and pretty in the sidecar. Roadhog nearly throws Junkrat onto the back of the bike, jumping onto the front of it. With a rip and a roar, they’re flying out of there. Roadhog hefts his shotgun, steering with one hand, and blows the barricading cops out of their way.

Junkrat is too busy staring at what’s behind them. With mighty groans of ancient stone, the whole building is collapsing, dust filling the streets and covering their getaway.

His grin turns into laughter, howls that shake his whole body. He has to cling to Roadhog to manage to stay on the bike at all. Junkrat presses his face into that broad back, buries his nose into Roadhog’s skin, and cackles viciously until it’s all out of his system.

“Fuck, mate,” he yells, wiping a tear from his eye. “I really do fuckin’ love you!”


	4. Hogdrogon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat gets shot, and Roadhog has to patch him up somehow. See tags for warnings.

Junkrat’s insides want to obey gravity and slip out. Roadhog isn’t letting them.

With a hefty kick, Roadhog breaks down the locked door and shoves his way into the abandoned garage. He’s panting hard from jogging across the city to get to it. Sirens wail in the distance. The cops’ll be hunting them all night long.

Gotta get the bike. Gotta get away.

Gotta stop Junkrat from bleeding to death first.

The ‘Rat in question is being carried by Roadhog. One arm under him, supporting his weight; one huge hand splayed across his middle, keeping his guts where they belong. Junkrat refuses to look at his damaged belly. He stares at Roadhog’s face instead, absolute trust in his orange eyes.

That trust is all that’s keeping Roadhog from losing it.

“Th-thank god the running’s over with,” Junkrat says, keeping his voice cheerful. “Thought I was g-gonna be bounced outta me head.”

“Be quiet,” Roadhog snaps. He crosses the room, and Junkrat leans into the rise and fall of his broad chest. There’s an old mattress they’d scavenged while they were using this place as a base. Roadhog puts Junkrat down onto it, deceptively gentle.

“W-wait,” Junkrat says, panicking, leaning back on one hand, reaching out with the other. He grasps Roadhog by a finger. “Don’t g-go anywhere!”

“I need to get the bag,” Roadhog says, but he doesn’t move from his kneeling position. His hand is all that’s keeping the boy from bleeding out, and they both know it. “Press down,” he instructs, sounding completely calm, collected, careful.

His heart is pounding a million miles per second. He doesn’t want Junkrat to see how upset he is. It’s a damn good thing he can’t see his face. He’s trying to slow his breathing, but nothing’s working. He’s panting like a wounded animal, but he’s not the one hurt.

Junkrat fumbles to obey, lying back, covering Roadhog’s hand with both of his own. When prompted, he switches them, so his organic hand will be pressing down against the wound.

Roadhog pulls away, and for a split second, he can see it. A mess of red meat, skin blasted inward, dark crimson gushing out. Junkrat must see it too, because he lets out a terrified squeak and presses his hands down hard.

“Hurry up!” He says, too weakly to be a real command. He’s probably in too much shock to be in any real pain. Yet. His trembling legs are kicking and jittering, making it hard for Roadhog to get around him.

There’s the duffle, right where they left it. Roadhog drags it over, kneeling by Junkrat’s side again, and opens it. He digs through the bag, gets out his tools, and Junkrat goes even paler.

“What are you gonna do?” He asks, voice pitched high.

Roadhog doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t quite know.

He’s got sterile needles and thread, and plenty of bandages, but the bullet is still inside Junkrat’s body. It needs to come out, or it’ll poison his blood. But Roadhog is no surgeon. He heals his own wounds by using his special canisters. Breathing it in removes impurities and stitches muscle and bone back together. The skin he sews up himself, later.

He reaches into the pocket of his vest and pulls out one of his special canisters. It’s no good; it won’t work without being connected to a gas mask. Roadhog’s mask.

_“I like you.”_

Unbuckling it takes all of two seconds. He slips it off his face and his eyes meet Junkrat’s. The boy is pale, but his expression is utterly shocked. And unexpectedly greedy.

“You—” Junkrat starts, but Roadhog doesn’t let him finish. He presses his mask against Junkrat’s face, squeezing the sides so it goes airtight. Junkrat chokes, his robotic hand grabbing Roadhog’s wrist as if to stop him. He must read something in Roadhog’s expression, some emotion, because the trust returns to his eyes and he pulls his hand away.

Roadhog is used to the mask separating them, but it’s surreal when it’s like this.

He jams the canister into the intake, and flicks it open. Junkrat draws in a gasping, shuddering breath, eyes going wide as he tastes the special compound. His body bucks as he breathes it in.

The full canister is meant for someone of Roadhog’s weight, not Junkrat’s. Too much of the stuff, and it’ll be a poisonous overdose. Too little, and the healing won’t be enough.

When the canister is half-empty Roadhog disconnects it, tosses it behind his shoulder. He removes the mask from Junkrat’s face and throws it to the side. Doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it. He looks over his boy carefully, noting every detail that’s inconsistent with how Junkrat normally looks.

His eyes are laced with reddish veins. He’s not blinking. His lips are white. His hands are hovering over his belly, like he knows he should be doing something with them, but has forgotten what. Roadhog carefully moves them away, lays them down. Junkrat is easily moved, as if he were a puppet.

Without his mask on, Roadhog can smell everything. The blood, the sweat. And…

It’s already starting to work. The bullet is being pushed out like a parasite grown too fat from feeding. When it reaches the surface, Roadhog grabs it between two thick fingers and tosses it.

Junkrat makes an odd, high-pitched sound as it happens. Roadhog, having felt bullets leaving his body, is sympathetic.

“Easy,” he rumbles, putting a hand on Junkrat’s sweaty, clammy forehead. “Almost done.”

Blood is pooling, but no longer gushing. Roadhog uses a rag to swipe the blood away so he can get a good look at the wound. Then he picks up a packaged needle and the thread.

Junkrat doesn’t scream as he’s sewn back together. He whimpers, eyes still wide and staring straight up.  Long years of using the formula have numbed Roadhog to its effects, but it seems very likely that Junkrat is experiencing the high.

Finished, his fingers dipped in blood, Roadhog bites the thread and snaps it off. He tosses the needle and feels Junkrat’s forehead again. Cooling down. Good.

Slowly, Roadhog’s heart returns to a normal, thudding pace. He waits, kneeling by Junkrat’s side. He watches Junkrat’s ragged breathing, watches his skinny chest swell up and cave in, watches his hands tighten into fists. Those gorgeous orange eyes don’t blink, don’t close at all for long, long minutes.

They have to get moving. They have to leave. They’re being hunted. Roadhog should dump Junkrat into the sidecar and let him fend for himself as they drive away.

_“I like you.”_

He can’t do that. Maybe he would have once, before, but he can’t now. So he sits as patiently as he can and, when Junkrat reaches for him, takes his shaking hand in his.

“R…” Junkrat tilts his head, blinking at last, swallowing down spit. “Road…”

“Jamie,” Roadhog says, voice low, almost reverent. “Can you hear me?”

Junkrat’s eyes slide over to him. He takes a deep, shocked breath.

“I’kin _see_ you,” Junkrat says, and he smiles. A big, wide grin that shows off all his teeth, even the gold canine.

Yep. High as a damn kite. But alive.

Roadhog kisses Junkrat’s forehead with a sweet sense of sentimentality, sweeping his hair away from his face. He breathes in the smell of him; black powder and dark chocolate. Without his mask, he can smell everything. And Junkrat smells unique, precious. Special. Interesting.

“You’re alright,” Roadhog mutters, lips moving against slick skin. “The drugs’ll wear off, then we’ll leave. And go somewhere safe. And this will never happen again.”

“I like you,” Junkrat giggles, still sporting that crooked grin. Roadhog pulls away to get a better look at his face. He brushes his fingers along Junkrat’s cheekbone.

“I like you too,” Roadhog says, but quietly, because it’s a secret he’s never spoken aloud before. Junkrat’s expression goes soft and vulnerable and he reaches for Roadhog with both hands. Roadhog allows himself to be pulled down, leaning over Junkrat’s prone body, and their lips meet in a simple kiss. Roadhog inhales; under the tin of blood and the husk of sweat, there it is.

The smell of home.

Roadhog’s home was taken from him a long time ago. Yet here he’s found a new one.

Something terrible and ugly builds in his chest. Something beautiful and destructive.

“The next person who tries to hurt you,” Roadhog rasps, “is very, very dead.”

Junkrat giggles, nuzzling their noses together, too distracted to appreciate what’s being promised him. Still, in the heart he long thought was dead, Roadhog swears it to himself, over and over again.

No one will ever take him away.


	5. Bodyheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very small drabble in which Junkrat tries to sleep. Fluff.

Sharing a bed with Roadhog, there’s one thing Junkrat learns very quickly.

The man is _hot_.

Like—yeah, okay, he’s _hot_ -hot, that too, but no seriously, he’s hot. He’s like a furnace with the way he pumps out heat. Temperatures under the blankets soar after he’s lied inim for five minutes.  Junkrat’s used to heat, used to the desert heat, but this is a new kind of twisted. He spends the night sweating up his own puddle. The blankets all end up kicked to the floor because Junkrat’s unconscious body just can _not_ handle it. And then he gets a chill because, hello, it’s fucking cold in the northern hemisphere, and he wakes up anyway. Then he has to get up and gather the blankets and, because he’s a nice guy, he tucks Roadhog in and gets back under and oh my _god_ , it’s like they never left Australia. Junkrat would call it nostalgic except he’s on fucking fire. And he can’t sleep unless he’s curled up, so his own body heat ends up trapped and you fucking know fucking what, it’s a vicious cycle. So he gives up, throws the blankets off, and tries to sleep shivering.

Roadhog moves. The mattress slumps and bumps under his weight. Junkrat ignores him; Roadhog rolls around in his sleep all the time, shifts into new positions to get comfortable. Normally they sleep back-to-back, facing the outside world, ready to protect each other from any danger that could invade their motel room. But like he said, Roadhog moves about. It’s not uncommon. So he ignores it.

But then the blankets wisp over his body and he stiffens. What the everloving? And there’s more movement, Roadhog leaning over him to make sure he’s completely covered.

A hand in his hair. Petting him, fondly, gently. Feels nice. Then it’s gone, and Roadhog is rolling back onto his side. Junkrat half-sits up, looks over his shoulder. Roadhog has already gone back to sleep, probably.  Junkrat can’t see his face, but he’s not under the blankets anymore. He’s given them all to Junkrat.

Junkrat lies back down, gripping the blankets with his good hand and feeling snug as a bug in a rug. His normal reaction to joy is to laugh, but he doesn’t want to wake Roadhog up. So he smiles instead, squeezing his eyes shut, giggling silently to release it all out of his body.

Then he sits up and re-covers them both with the blankets. He presses a swift kiss to Roadhog’s shoulder and curls up against his back, still grinning like a fool in love.

If you can’t handle the heat…


	6. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt on tumblr. Junkrat's having trouble with his prosthetic leg, and Roadhog's the only one who can help. See tags for warnings.

The boy’s fallen over again.

Roadhog knows it without turning around. He heard the  _clang_  and the  _oof_  and the slap of a body hitting the dirt. He ignores it, continues on with what he’s doing; checking over his precious motorcycle, inspecting it for damage. This rest stop is well used, especially by the Junkers of the wasteland, and he doesn’t trust any of them not to sabotage his hog during the night.

There’s laughter. Quiet, pressing, mocking laughter.

Roadhog turns around at last to a sight he deems pitiful. Junkrat is trying to get up, but can’t find purchase on the peg that’s so recently replaced his foot. He tries a different tactic, leans all his weight on his good foot, and manages to stand that way. 

People, Junkers, are watching from the rest stop’s front. Snickering behind their hands, some laughing openly at the poor cripple. Junkrat gives them all the finger and a cheery grin. Roadhog grunts in approval. Kid has balls, anyway.

Junkrat goes to step onto his peg leg. And it slips again, improperly balanced, and Junkrat lands flat on his face, smacking into the earth hard enough to disturb the dust settled over the cracked-mud surface.

The laughter gets louder, wilder. But it stops like the threat of broken jaws when Roadhog approaches and looks their way. They sneer, but will always, always cower before him. Most of them turn away, back to minding their own business.

“Get up,” he tells Junkrat.

“Oh I’m fine,” Junkrat says into the dirt. “Real peachy. No trouble at all. Thanks for askin’, mate. Ya great big  _cunt_.”

“Get. Up.” Roadhog repeats, and curbs his voice into an order. Junkrat looks up at him, expression utterly frazzled. When Roadhog holds out his hands, he just gets confused. So Roadhog crouches down and snaps up Junkrat’s hands into his own.

Junkrat’s hands are an odd combination of soft and callused. Callused in the pads of his fingers from where he holds his tools, soft in the palm and knuckles. Roadhog takes them as gently as he can, fully aware of his size and strength. Then he hauls Junkrat up easy as breathing, so he’s standing on his good leg.

“Follow my lead,” Roadhog instructs, keeping a firm hold on Junkrat’s hands. Then Roadhog steps back. Junkrat leans forward, hesitant to move, still bewildered.

When Roadhog takes another step back, though, Junkrat has to follow, or his arms will be pulled out of their sockets. He half-jumps, half-steps to close the distance, reluctantly putting weight onto his peg leg. He slips again, but Roadhog’s grip steadies him, catches him mid-fall. Roadhog keeps him upright, lets him gather his thoughts and his legs underneath him.

“Can’t you just carry me?” Junkrat asks. Whines.

“You’ll never learn that way.” Roadhog takes another step back, leading him on.  Junkrat takes the step with his left leg; all good there, he’s used to that one. Forward again, and nearly another tumble.

But the third time, Junkrat catches the peg underneath him proper. He hobbles forward, his hands clenching in Roadhog’s, surprise written all over his face.

Two more steps, halfway to the bike now. Junkrat gets the rhythm, leans less on Roadhog, manages his own skinny self. Roadhog lets go, thinking Junkrat’s got it.

Junkrat squawks as he pitches to the ground again. Roadhog looks over him, considering.

“Is it too tight?” Roadhog asks.

“Too what?” Junkrat spits out between dirt and sand.

“Your straps. Are they too tight?”

“I don’t fucking know, I just did ‘em up so they fit!” Junkrat grabs Roadhog’s hand again without invitation and uses it to pull himself up. Roadhog allows it, helps it even. Takes him under his good elbow and lets him lean on it.

He can’t remember the last time he touched someone. Except to kill them.

“Let me see,” Roadhog says. Junkrat hesitates, then lifts up the leg of his shorts, so where prosthetic meets flesh is exposed. Roadhog crouches down and Junkrat clings onto his shoulders, wobbling on one foot.

Roadhog tugs on the straps, then shakes his head. Just as he thought: the boy’s got the leather belts cutting off his circulation. No wonder the leg is weak and shaky. He grabs a buckle and yanks the leather so it loosens, just by a hair. Junkrat’s whole body is jarred and he swears, loudly, calling Roadhog a ‘cunt’ again.

“Try now.” Roadhog stands to his full height and holds his hands out again. Junkrat takes them, eyeing him suspiciously. But when Roadhog steps back, he steps forward, and this time the motion is much smoother. He catches the peg under himself in the correct manner and, with blood flowing properly, has the strength to lean on it.

“If it’s numb, it’s too tight.” Roadhog says.

“How’d you know that?” Junkrat asks, testing his prosthetic, shifting his weight from leg to leg.

Roadhog doesn’t say anything in reply, but leads Junkrat over to the motorcycle. By the second step Junkrat really does have the hang of it, and by the end of the short journey, he’s walking completely on his own.

“Er, look,” Junkrat says, as Roadhog grabs the handlebars of his motorcycle. “I mean—thanks, mate. That was downright pleasant of you.”

Roadhog grunts.

“I won’t get used to it,” Junkrat promises, with a smile that’s sort of sarcastic.

“Good,” Roadhog mutters.

It’s been decades since Roadhog has been attached to another person. And he absolutely refuses to get attached to this one.

Even if he has to teach him how to walk all over again.


End file.
